


The Warden and Her Crow

by HIMluv



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Deep Roads (Dragon Age), F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HIMluv/pseuds/HIMluv
Summary: A collection of oneshots for my Warden Cerine Tabris and Zevran.





	1. Beware of Dog

Zevran eyed the Mabari warily. The hounds were renowned for their ferocity in battle, intelligence, and unshakable loyalty for their masters. Zevran had, of course, recently tried to kill the dog’s master, and so thought it best to treat the beast with care.

The dog caught his eye and growled.

Ah. As he expected, there was no fooling a dog, let alone a Mabari.

“It was business,” he told the hound the next morning. He held out a piece of dried venison for the dog, but it only watched him. Zevran shrugged and ate the morsel himself. “Besides,” he said as he chewed. “She spared my life and I have now sworn an oath to her.”

The ex-Templar snorted from the campfire.

Zevran leveled his gaze at the Mabari. “Alistair may not trust such an oath, but you know the truth of such matters, no?”

The dog tilted its head, then huffed loudly before turning away from the assassin.

“You are aware you are speaking to a dog, yes?” The Chantry sister asked in her soft, lilting voice.

“Not just a dog,” Zevran replied. “A Mabari.”

She pursed her pouty lips. “Yes, well, I doubt he understands something so abstract as an oath.”

“I think you would be surprised.” He caught the Warden watching their conversation, a pleased gleam in her golden eyes, and Zevran knew he was on the right track.

When he offered a snack to the hound two weeks later, the dog approached cautiously. It sniffed his hand, then took the venison gingerly from Zevran’s fingers. It moved off to eat in peace, but Zevran knew it was only a matter of time before he befriended the beast.

“I see what you’re doing,” Alistair grumbled.

“Feeding the dog?” Zevran suggested.

“You’re trying to win over the hound so Cerine will trust you.”

Really, he wanted to win over the hound so he needn’t fear the beast in his sleep, but if the Warden trusted him sooner because of it, he wouldn’t complain. “You are quite clever, Alistair,” Zevran said, smiling. “Far cleverer than I to concoct such a scheme.”

The ex-Templar glared at him. “Now you’re just mocking me.”

Zevran laughed. “I promise you, I am not! For how could poor Zevran ever hope to mock someone so clever as yourself?”

Alistair’s scowl deepened and from across the fire came such a feminine giggle that Zevran was certain it must belong to Leliana. But, the wide, golden eyes of the Warden looked back at him over the flames, and Zevran felt a pleasurable flush roll through him.

The Mabari let out a happy bark at his mistress’ giggle, which only made the elven woman laugh even harder.

Alistair stood. “You are all insufferable,” he huffed, and then stomped off toward his tent.

 

As the weeks turned into months the Mabari ceased growling at Zevran, even when the elf approached the Warden, though the dog refused to come to Zevran if his mistress didn’t command it, unless the assassin provided a snack to entice him.

So, when the hound approached him in the quiet of Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate, Zevran knew something was wrong. It was late, the estate silent except for the crackling of the flames in the hearth before him. He sipped at an expensive bottle of brandy he’d snatched from the Arl’s private collection and blinked blearily at the sound of claws on stone.

The dog drew near carefully, its head down and ears back, looking as dejected as Zevran felt. Then, to his immense surprise, the dog nudge his hand with its snout and whimpered.

Zevran ruffled the fur of the dog’s head. “It was a hard day on all of us,” he admitted. He knew alienages were sad places, but seeing where his Warden had grown up, helping her save her father from a life of slavery, had been more taxing than he’d anticipated.

The Mabari whimpered again, ducked out from under Zevran’s hand, and took a few tentative steps away. It paused, looked back at the assassin and wriggled its stubby nub of a tail hopefully. Intrigued, Zevran pushed himself out of the leather armchair he’d been lounging across, and followed the dog, his bottle of brandy in hand.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when it led him to the Warden’s door. But he was surprised by the muffled crying he could hear coming from within. The dog tilted its head from side to side, listening, and then whined.

Zevran stood at the door, uncertain of how to proceed. It was true that he and Cerine had grown closer over the past months, and that he often shared her bed, but they were hardly confidants… Were they? He wanted to be, he thought. Or at least, he wasn’t sure, but he might actually care for the Warden. It was so difficult to tell when one had been taught that feelings were synonymous with a painful death.

He shot a glare at the dog. “You should have fetched Leliana,” he said. “Or Alistair.”

The dog growled softly, low in its throat. Apparently the Mabari disagreed.

“All right, all right,” he hissed. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

There was a long pause in her crying, and then her voice called out, “who is it?”

“It is your favorite Antivan, Zevran Arainai,” he said through the door, putting a grin in his voice though he couldn’t convince one to claim his face. “It seems your hound was concerned; he led me here.” When she didn’t speak he sighed and pressed his forehead to the door. “Cerine, may I enter?”

The dog pawed at the door, another sad little whine comimg from it. A moment later Zevran nearly fell through the doorway as the Warden opened the chamber door.

She looked a mess. Her mid-length blond hair was down for once, and he was surprised to see it was wavy, as if she’d spent a day on the coast of Antiva City. It was obvious she’d been crying from her blotchy cheeks and the wet sniffling sounds she made as she tried to pretend she was fine. When he didn’t move she gestured for him to enter the room, which he did once the dog went first.

The Mabari circled a few times before settling down with a huff in front of the small fireplace. In the low, flickering firelight Zevran saw his gold earring dangling from her left ear, and his heart clenched. He hadn’t expected her to wear the trinket, and he had never expected that seeing her do so would cause such a swell of feeling within him.

She perched on the foot of the bed, staring at the flames for a long time before Zevran sat beside her. He offered her the bottle of brandy, which she took and swigged from generously. She handed it back, and he took a small sip; he thought he might want his head clear for this evening.

When she still didn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “Do you wish to speak of what troubles you so?”

She shook her head. After another quiet moment she sagged against his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her automatically. He was wonderful with words, and yet terrible at telling her the things she made him think and feel. But tonight Cerine didn’t want words. She didn’t need words. She needed his strong arm to hold her when she threatened to fall apart. She needed his warmth when something in her soul had gone cold. She needed _him_.

This was something he could offer. He would always be there for his Warden.


	2. Lie to Me Then

Something was wrong. Cerine was often taciturn, speaking only when necessary, and gracing him with small smiles when she thought no one else was looking. But, ever since they’d entered the Dalish camp, his Warden had closed off from them all.

Her back was rigid, bringing her to her full height, which was still shorter than Zevran. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her pink lips pressed thin as she struggled not to scowl at every elf they passed.

Admittedly, he felt no kinship for these elves. Their lives were as foreign to him as a Nevarran mortalitasi’s, but Cerine’s mother had been Dalish. Surely she would feel some connection with the clan? But the only emotion displayed on her tan face was barely restrained hostility.

She spoke with the Keeper, Zathrian, and when he respectfully refused to honor the treaty with the Wardens, Cerine very nearly snapped.

“What do you want?” She growled.

The bald elf blinked at her. “I am sorry, Warden, but my people are spread thin enough. I will not send them to their deaths on your behalf. Assuming we survive these attacks.”

Cerine’s fists balled into fists, but Leliana stepped in before the Warden could do something she might regret.

“Perhaps we can help?” The Orlesian said. Her voice sweet and pleasing, impossible to lash out against.

Morrigan scoffed behind them and Zevran shot her a glare. He was used to the mage’s coldness and understood the usefulness of her façade, but right now Cerine needed a reminder of kindness and warmth.

Zathrian looked between them, doubt plain on his tattooed face. “Perhaps you can. In the depths of the forest is a wolf with white fur, Witherfang. Bring me its heart, and these werewolf attacks will cease.”

“Werewolf?” Morrigan asked, her interest piqued.

The Keeper prattled on about the history of the forest and the origins of the werewolves, but Zevran paid little attention. His every sense was devoted to analyzing his Warden’s sour mood. She was often perceived as callous, but Zevran knew there was much warmth buried deep beneath her frigid demeanor. She always helped those who asked, and doled out justice where she saw fit.

So why did she regard these elves with such disdain?

He didn’t get the opportunity to ask until their second night in the Brecillian forest. They had found Danayla earlier in the afternoon, and the creature’s pleas for mercy did not fall on deaf ears. He did not miss Cerine’s murmured, “Dareth shiral” as her blade found the werewolf’s heart.

The Warden said nothing more until she announced they would make camp in the small meadow set to the side of their path. Zevran traded glances with Leliana and Morrigan, all of them worried.

“I will fetch kindling for the fire,” Leliana volunteered. “Help me, Morrigan?”

The mage rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, but her worried glance at Cerine’s back and then to Zevran told him they all agreed. Something was not right with their dear Warden.

After the pair left the camp, Zevran approached Cerine and helped her set up their tent. “The Dalish surprise me,” he said.

She grunted. “How so?”

“They are renowned in Antiva City as great craftsmen and graceful hunters, but these elves bear little resemblance to such tales.”

Cerine shook her head. “Maybe Ferelden elves are lacking.”

He smirked at her, letting the warmth he felt for her pool in his eyes. “I highly doubt that.”

She rolled her eyes, but he was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles as she continued pitching their tent. They worked in silence, until the tent stood on its own, furs and blankets laid out inside.

She made to move on to the next task, but he stopped her with a hand on hers. “You dislike these Dalish,” he said.

She shrugged. “Not anymore than I do anyone else,” she said, but would not meet his eyes.

He released her hand and moved to clear a spot for their campfire. “Fine, lie to me, then.” From the corner of his eye he saw her head whip around to look at him. He rarely spoke her with such bluntness, she was used to honeyed words that danced around their subject of conversation. But he was running out of time, and his Warden was in pain.

Soft words could wait.

She sighed from where she stood by their tent. “All right,” she said. “I deserved that.” She pulled a log over to ring what would be their fire, and sat upon it. “My mother was Dalish.”

He nodded. “So you have said.” He would have thought the connection would have warmed her to the clan, not the opposite.

“She left our home when I was very young,” she continued. “To help her clan, even though they’d banished her for falling in love with a flat-ear.” She spat the slur into the dirt with such venom that Zevran flinched.

He knew that she loved her father very much, and any who would describe him as such would forever earn her wrath. But he sensed there was more to her dislike than mere prejudice.

Cerine fiddled with a lace on her leathers, a rare show of anxiety. “She left, and she died. She died to help them, when they didn’t even want her anymore.”

And there it was. The truth. She carried her mother’s abandonment deep in her heart, in a place he was so rarely granted insight. He didn’t think this was a hurt he could heal; how could he tell his lover that her mother had been an adult that had made a choice? A choice to leave one family behind for the sake of another?

Twice.

Cerine shuddered and wiped at her face. “It’s stupid,” she said. “It was years ago, a lifetime ago. These people need my help. I shouldn’t treat them any differently just because…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

He watched her a moment, before joining her to sit on the log. “I imagine you are not alone in your feelings,” he said. “Fear and anger can lead us to do things we may regret.” He looked at her carefully before he said his next words. “Like banishing a daughter for who she loved.”

Cerine smiled at him, though it trembled on her lips. “And hating an entire people because of one clan?”

Zevran returned her smile, and was surprised when she leaned in to kiss him.

“Goodness,” Morrigan called from the edge of the camp. “Shall we gather more wood?” She shot them a wicked grin. “Or have you found some of your own?”

“Morrigan,” Leliana chided, her pale face blushing as Zevran wagged his eyebrows.

“The search does not require solitude,” he teased. “By all means, Morrigan, watch.”

Cerine slapped his chest, and they all burst into laughter and the tension of their travels in the Brecillian forest melted away. As the fire flickered into life with a wave of the mage’s hand, Cerine smiled at him. One of those soft, secret smiles he loved so much, but this one was all the brighter for gracing him in sight of their companions.


	3. A Most Ingenious Idea

This had to be the worst week of Cerine’s life. And she’d had plenty of bad days to compare it against. When the traveling merchant had practically begged her to take the control rod off his hands, she’d thought at worst she was out a few sovereigns. But at best, she’d have a stone golem all her own.

Except Shale had been startlingly autonomous, and opinionated. Cerine didn’t mind that so much, in fact, she found the golem’s droll and very sarcastic demeanor hilarious. Especially when it poked fun at Alistair.

“It’s cheeks have gone pink,” the golem noted, after discussing Alistair’s careful attention to Cerine’s “backside” as she walked. “Is it sick?”

While Cerine had the good grace to keep her reaction down to a soft chuckle, Zevran and Morrigan let out full belly laughs at the other Warden’s expense.

“ _He_ is not sick,” Alistair snapped and hurried to set up their camp, avoiding any and all eye contact.

“Oh good, it is leaving.” The golem looked at the rest of them. “Perhaps next, you’ll all turn pink and run away. Leave me in peace.”

Cerine was pretty sure Shale found the gang of “squishy mortals” entertaining, or at least somewhat of a novelty, since the golem decided to follow them, even once the Warden had made it clear the thing could do as it pleased. But she wasn’t going to point that out to the golem.

Sadly, Shale’s arrival had been the highpoint of an otherwise dismal week. While battling a chained demon in Honnleath had been anything but fun, it was a sight better than murdering an entire village. But, the inhabits of Haven left her little choice in the matter.

Her dagger sank through the chest of yet another villager, and despite how quickly they fell, there seemed to be no shortage of them. And they were all eager to die on her sword if it meant keeping her from following the path that trailed up the mountainside.

Alistair roared as he bashed a particularly strong attacker with his shield. Cerine heard the man’s chest crack against the silverite shield and winced. Then a flash of lightning lit the sky, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder.

“Perhaps we ought to seek shelter?” Morrigan called from the edge of the makeshift battlefield. Her staff swung in graceful arcs, glowing with ominous green light.

Alistair barked a laugh. “What’s the matter Morrigan? Afraid you might melt?”

“’Tis you who should be afraid, Alistair. You are the walking lightning rod, in all that steel.”

Zevran spun his twin daggers, crossing them to snip the head off the last villager as if the man were a blighted rose in need of pruning. Blood spurted from the corpse as it fell, some of it sprinkling the assassin like spray from a fountain.

“As entertaining as I usually find your bickering,” he said. He didn’t even have the nerve to sound breathless. “I believe we should press on.”

With matching scowls, the pair fell into step with Cerine and Zevran. The climb up the mountain was steep, and riddled with even more cultists. By the time they reached the temple Cerine had developed a thin sheen of sweat, despite the chilly air, and struggled to catch her breath.

She stood at the foot of the stairs that would lead into the giant building, hands on her knees. “These ashes better be sodding worth it.”

“You don’t really think they’re the ashes of Andraste, do you?” Alistair asked. Even he looked a little worse for wear after their climb.

“How should I know?” She shrugged.

“Well, these cultists obviously believe they are divine in nature,” Morrigan said. She looked fine, though her hair was particularly windswept as the storm gathered.

“Does it matter?” Zevran asked. “As long as they work, who cares whose ashes they are?”

Alistair stared at the elf, gobsmacked. Which, judging by Zevran’s smirk, was exactly what the assassin had intended.

Cerine chuckled, shaking her head, and stepped up onto the stairs. “Come on. These ashes aren’t going to relinquish themselves.”

But once they were inside they discovered that this was just the temple, not where the ashes themselves were held. Thankfully there was a very chatty, injured Shem loitering in the atrium. He mentioned, frequently, that he was a respected Chantry scholar, which meant Cerine only half listened to him before she handed him a healing potion and some bandages. Then they fought their way through the temple and out into the rain.

Because, of course, it was raining.

There was another path leading up to what looked like another temple, and one path that led down to a meadow blanketed in unblemished snow. On the way up to the second temple, they found a giant, golden gong dangling on a cliff that jutted out over the meadow.

“What do you reckon that’s for?” Alistair asked over the pelting rain.

“By all means,” Morrigan drawled. “Ring the suspicious gong, enshrined by mad zealots we’ve murdered en masse. ’Tis a most ingenious idea.”

Alistair glanced at Cerine and she shrugged. “How could this day possibly get any worse?”

Zevran shook his head as Alistair slapped the broadside of his sword against the monstrous medallion. Even from beneath the oppressive clouds and from under the steady roar of the rain, the gong rang out, echoing across the meadow.

At first, Cerine thought that ringing the gong amounted to nothing. That the sharp roar of thunder was just the storm, making itself heard. Then there was the distinct sound of air being displaced, as if mighty wings pushed at the clouds to brush them out of the way.

When the black dragon materialized from the storm, thunder incarnate, Cerine laughed. The sound was loud, harsh on her lips as her head fell back and her hand gripped her belly.

“A dragon,” she wheezed. “Of course it’s a fucking dragon.” She pulled her daggers and grinned as her companions did the same.

After the day they’d had, how could she expect anything less?


	4. Sunshine

Cerine sighed in relief as Zevran helped her unbuckle her thick leather armor. With each loosening clasp, the breeze from Lake Calenhad snuck in between her chest plate and tunic, mingling with her sweat to bring a sweet chill to her skin. 

Zevran chuckled. “If you think this is hot, wait until you visit Antiva.” There was a pause in his speech, long enough for her to notice, but short enough that she couldn’t linger on the certainty of his words. “Rialto is more temperate, with delightful coastal breezes, but Antiva City?” He tisked. “One often feels the desire to bathe after their bath.”

She thought he exaggerated, but he only had the faint glisten of sweat on his brow, where she and Alistair were both flushed and dripping. Even Leliana and Morrigan looked worse for wear as they dangled their legs off the dock, their toes splashing in the cool water.

With Zevran’s help, Cerine shucked her armor and then peeled her leathers from her legs. In just her tunic and small clothes she waded into the water and shivered at the chill of the dark water. She lifted her face to the sky and relished the warmth of the sun on her skin. Their time in the Deep Roads haunted her mind and her steps, but in the full force of the summer sun, Cerine could finally put the shadows behind her. She felt good for the first time in weeks. 

Something brushed against her leg and she instinctively kicked out at it as she flung herself back toward the shore. She fell ass first into the water with a yelp as Zevran broke the surface. She caught a glimpse of his laughing face just before her head went beneath the water. 

By the time her back met with the silt of the lakebed Cerine already had a plan of attack. She shoved off of the floor of the lake, launching herself up and out of the water, directly at her elven assassin. Zevran’s grin faltered as she lunged at him, but his reflexes were impossibly fast. 

Instead of colliding with him, taking him down into the water as planned, Zevran caught her. He grunted as her weight nearly toppled him, but he steadied, his arms wrapped around her waist, and grinned. “Why, my dear Warden, are you afraid of the fishes?”

Her legs hooked over his hips, her arms locked behind his neck, and she gave him her best scowl. “You’ll pay for that,” she growled. 

His smile only grew.“Promise?” His sultry tone and ridiculous eyebrow waggle drew her attention to how close they were and to the fact that he wore only his small clothes. 

Outside of her tent, this was the closest she had ever dared to get, but Zevran deserved so much more than the dim shadows of their camp. The sunlight glowed on his bronze skin, the black ink of his tattoos shining with the water that dripped from his chest. Her fingers clawed into the back of his neck, and she smiled at his little hiss of pleasure.

She brushed her lips against his and smirked at his sharp inhalation. “Promise,” she whispered. Then she jerked away from him, her arms and legs still locked around his hips and neck, to drag them both down into the water.He cried out, his mouth open as they fell under the water. 

When she resurfaced, the first thing Cerine heard was Morrigan’s sharp barking laughter, then Zevran’s spluttering curses. 

“Braska, woman!” He spat water from his mouth. “I thought I was the assassin!”

She shrugged. “Not my fault you didn’t hold your breath.”

He flicked his hair from his face, frowned at her, then lunged. Cerine laughed as she swam out of his reach, but she wasn’t much of a swimmer. His hand found her ankle and tugged, but she shoved off of his chest with both feet. He released her, the air knocked from him with a little grunt, and she raced toward the dock. 

“Hurry!” Leliana cried.

“He’s gaining!” Morrigan called. 

Cerine looked up to find the two women knelt on the dock, each with a hand stretched out to her. She clasped them both and pushed against the lakebed as they hauled her up onto the rickety wooden dock. Zevran’s fingers grappled at her leg, but he was too late. Cerine pulled herself from his clutches and collapsed back onto the wooden planks, the sun beating down on her face. 

He cursed, water splashing, and she laughed. She laughed so hard she nearly cried. Cerine couldn’t remember a time she had felt this light. The world was ending, she was doomed to an early death, and she lay laughing on the docks of Lake Calenhad. All because of a man who had failed to kill her. 

A shadow fell over her, followed by thick droplets of water. She opened her eyes to find Zevran standing above her, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. With the sun behind him, casting his shadow over her, Cerine felt certain he was some sort of avenging spirit sent to protect her.

_I would sooner spill your blood than let them have you._ His words echoed in her head. He had promised. He wouldn’t let her go to the Deep Roads alone, he wouldn’t let them take her. 

Golden eyes bored into her, a little crease in his brow as he frowned down at her and Cerine was nearly overcome in a wave of affection for the man. He was so charming, willing to say and do almost anything to earn her smiles and laughter, but she knew Zevran. She knew the heavy thump of his heart as his pulse slowed against her sweat-slicked skin. She knew the murmured words, his confessions kept from her in his mother tongue. Words that brimmed with awe and adoration, that promised devotion even if she couldn’t understand them. 

And for the first time, she realized she wanted to say them back. She wanted to give him a fraction of what he provided her, a sliver of the warmth his smiles brought even in her darkest days. 

Her eyes betrayed her, the moisture pooling in the corners enough to erase Zevran’s false consternation. “Amor?”

She cleared her throat, blinking furiously, and then smirked. “I won,” she said.

He scowled, but let her escape her emotions for the moment. “You cheated.”

She grinned. “I know. Aren’t you proud of me?”


	5. Promise

"First day, they come and catch everyone.”

In the Deep Roads, in the fleshy cavern of the Broodmother, Cerine stands alone. The whiplike tentacles of the horrifying Darkspawn blocks her exit, though she can just see a flash of blonde hair on the other side. 

“Zevran!” She calls, but Hespith’s hollow voice drowns out the Warden’s cry. 

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.” The gruesome poem echoes impossibly loud through the chamber, as if the walls were made of stone and not the rancid flesh of dwarves. 

Cerine rushes to the wall of waving tentacles, but she can’t see Zevran. “No,” she breathes. He wouldn’t leave her there. After what they’d learned, she didn’t think even Oghren would leave her behind to become…

She turns to stare at the deformed monstrosity, with too many legs, and breasts oozing ichor. To her horror, the Broodmother smiles back.

“You are alone, Warden,” the creature hisses. It smiles, coagulated Darkspawn blood dribbling from her lips. “You cannot escape.”

“Third day, the men are all gnawed on again,” Hespith’s voice continues.

The Warden snarls, reaching for her daggers, but they aren’t there. She looks down at herself to find that not only are her weapons gone, but so is her armor. In its place she wears the ceremonial tunic and leggings of an alienage wedding. Her ceremonial tunic and leggings, the ones she wore when Nelaros died. 

“Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.”

“You thought because you saved us you could leave?” The Broodmother asks, but when Cerine looks up at the creature it has Shianni’s face. “That you could leave us all behind?” Her cousin smiles, and black ichor bubbles from her lips. “But no matter how far you go, _Warden_ , you can never leave. You cannot escape what you are.”

Blood drains from the Warden’s face so quickly that she feels lightheaded. But that doesn’t quell the rage that boils up in her chest. “And what am I?” She growls.

Shianni’s face blurs as she speaks. “A scared little girl who cries for her mamae.” As she says the term of endearment the creature’s face shifts until it looks like Cerine, but older and with dark green eyes. “You were so young when she left, helpless. You couldn’t stop her, not with your tiny hands, or your fumbling words. Not even your brimming eyes and heart could convince her to stay.”

“Fifth day, they return and it’s another girl’s turn.”

Cerine stands, trembling in the center of the Broodmother’s lair, staring at the face of the woman that had abandoned her family when she was only a child. She wants to scream, to shout at the monster before her, but even still, decades later, she can’t find the words.

“You always feared you would be just like her,” the monster with her mother’s face continues. “That the call of adventure would pull you from your family. But then the taint took even that possibility from you.” The Broodmother smiles, black blood spilling from her mouth. “But not anymore. Now you will be the mother of thousands! And you will never leave!”

“Sixth day, her scream we hear in our dreams.”

A hand on her shoulder turns her from the terrifying scene, and suddenly everything is dark. Not the dark of night, pocked with starlight, but the consuming dark of a cavern. 

Cerine lashes out, but her wrist is caught in a strong, warm grip. It’s familiar, long fingers and rough calluses from years of bladework. She struggles against it anyway, but in the dark her attempts are futile. The strength pulls against her until her back is pressed to its warmth. She cries out, her mind flooded with images of Darkspawn pulling her into the depths of the Deep Roads, but a hand covers her mouth before she can scream.

“Amor,” says a voice against her ear. It shushes her, the voice low and soothing. “Amor, it’s just a dream.” When she doesn’t settle he plants a kiss just behind her ear. “Cerine,” he murmurs. “Come back to me.” 

She stills, breathing hard and her heart pounding. “Zevran?” She whispers.

“Si, amor.” He releases his grip on her wrist and his arm around her waist loosens. “I am here.”

She lies beside him, her whole body shaking as her mind reels to catch up. It had been a dream, her brain processing the day’s horrors. The Deep Roads, the Darkspawn, Hespith, the Broodmother, and Branka. All of it had gone so poorly, a nightmare come to life. And yet her dreams somehow managed to be even worse. 

She exhales a shuddering breath as her body relaxes into Zevran’s chest. He rubs her arm, humming low in his throat. She doesn’t recognize the tune, but it’s soft and lilting; a lullaby. They stay like that for a long time, Cerine combating her mind while Zevran soothes her with his voice, until she finally speaks.

“Don’t let them take me,” she whispers. 

He stops humming, his hand fisting in her tunic at her navel. “Amor,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Promise me, Zevran.” Her voice is lined with steel. If it wasn’t, she would cry, and that would be unacceptable. 

For a long moment, the only sounds in the cavern are the breaths of their little party. Oghren’s deep, rasping roars. Alistair’s soft, stuttering snores. And Cerine and Zevran’s tense, shallow breaths. 

“Cerine,” he says, his voice low but unwavering in her ear. “I would sooner spill your blood than let them have you.”

She sighs as he kisses her neck, his grip firm around her waist. And there, in the still darkness of the Deep Roads, she permits a single tear to fall down her cheek.


	6. Welcome

This was not how Zevran imagined meeting his Warden’s family. Granted, he hadn’t really imagined it at all, but rescuing them from the clutches of Tevinter slavers would not have been high on the list of scenarios, regardless. Thankfully, they had arrived in time to save Cyrion, Cerine’s father. Her rage had boiled hot under the surface of her skin at the sight of the old man behind bars. Zevran didn’t want to think what her reaction might have been if they’d arrived too late.

Now they sat at her father’s table, sharing a meagre meal with Cyrion and her cousins, Soris and Shianni. The siblings bickered good-naturedly, though Shianni inevitably won whatever quarrel they had. Zevran liked them. He found their dynamic amusing, and Shianni’s outspokenness reminded him of his Warden. 

He glanced at Cerine, realizing she had been very quiet over the course of the meal. She moved boiled carrots around her plate, frowning as she only half listened to Shianni’s tale of her time in some shop or another, and some brute she stood up to. It seemed stubbornness was a family trait. 

Zevran reached across the table for the carafe of water as an excuse to whisper in Cerine’s ear. “Amor, how have these carrots wronged you?”

She blinked golden eyes at him, her pale brows pulled low. “What?”

“If they have offended,” he continued, his voice light with humor. “Tell me at once so that I might make them suffer on your behalf.”

Cerine considered him for a moment, then smirked. “If I can’t exact revenge on root vegetables, I have bigger problems than whatever they could have done to wrong me.”

Her words were light, and the curve of her lips suggested good humor, but Zevran knew Cerine’s eyes. They had bored through him enough times that he understood the language of the green and gold that played in her irises. And just then, her eyes were clouded with the thunderstorms of her mind. 

“So, Zevran,” Shianni said, pulling his attention from the Warden. “Cerine refuses to tell us how you came to join her merry band.”

Cerine coughed over a mouthful of food. Zevran patted her back and winked at her.

“How lucky for me, my dear Shianni, that the Warden would save the telling so that I might regale you with the tale of how she saved my life.”

All eyes looked at him, Soris’ wide with awe, Cyrion’s crinkled with mirth, and Shianni’s narrow with suspicion. Cerine still spluttered, and Zevran poured her a fresh glass of water before beginning his story.

“In the shadows of Antiva City, whispers spoke of a contract from across the Waking Sea. None were brave enough to take it, only I was foolish enough to think I could best two Wardens in combat.” He paused, glanced at Cyrion’s glass, and lifted the pitcher. “More water, Messere Tabris?”

Cerine’s father gaped at him, then looked at his glass, cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, please.” 

Zevran poured, a soft smile on his lips. “So, I, the foolish Zevran Arainai, travelled across the sea, through the muck and mud of Ferelden, hot on the heels of the country’s last Wardens.” 

The table was silent, Shianni and Soris enraptured by his story, and Cerine’s bronze cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“But, as I travelled, word of the Warden’s accomplishments was on the tongue of every man, woman, and child. She was hard, unforgiving, a righteous fury carving a path through Ferelden. And yet the stories said she often helped, going out of her way to solve problems, find loved ones lost, and that she never failed to share what resources she had.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “But if you stood in her way?” He tisked. “She would cut you down without hesitation.”

Cyrion snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds like her mother.”

Cerine beamed at her father, and Zevran’s heart leapt in his chest. The Warden so rarely spoke of her mother, but he knew that the woman was dear in her heart. He would relish any talk of his Warden’s past.

“She comes by her fearsome reputation naturally, then,” Zevran chuckled. “Despite such daunting tales, I continued in my pursuit, determined to lay a trap for the Wardens. I waited until the moment was perfect. I’ll never forget the quiet twilight that had settled over the road. The…” he paused and leaned toward Cerine, but kept his voice loud enough for all to hear. “How do you say, the little bugs with lanterns for behinds?”

Cerine grinned as Shianni laughed. “Fireflies.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The _fireflies_ twinkled beneath the trees.” He let his gaze unfocus, pulling up the memory of the evening. He hadn’t been nervous, but calm. Resolute. Prepared to give his life to the fierce woman, though he never dreamed he would get to do so and continue living to tell the tale. “It was truly the perfect backdrop for a murder.”

Cerine snorted, the sound shockingly similar to her father’s. 

“Wait a minute,” Shianni said. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “You’re telling us that you were hired to assassinate Cerine?”

He blinked at the redhead, then dazzled her with his winningest smile. “And the former Templar, yes.”

Shianni spluttered. “What? How? What happened?”

Zevran laughed. “I failed, miserably, of course!”

Cyrion laughed then, his eyes on his daughter’s face. Cerine smiled and shook her head, neither confirming nor denying the truth of Zevran’s tale.

“The Warden bested my men and had me at her mercy. If I remember correctly, Alistair suggested she kill me.”

“It was the first time Alistair and Morrigan ever agreed on something,” she quipped.

“And the only time, I imagine.”

Shiannia gaped at them. “Wait. You mean… this is true?”

Cerine smirked and shrugged, returning her attention to her plate. 

“So, there I was, wounded, bound, and seated most uncomfortably on the cold Ferelden ground. And what should I see upon waking but a beautiful, lethal woman with her blade to my throat?” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Soris. “There are worse ways to wake up, let me assure you.”

Her cousin laughed, though it was plain that the more mild mannered relative was somewhat uncomfortable by the turn in the conversation. 

Shianni shook her head. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Cerine doesn’t forgive, and she doesn’t forget.” There was a darkness in her voice that matched the storms that swirled in his Warden’s eyes. The table was tense suddenly, all mirth wiped from the family as they all fell into memories. It had been almost a year since the Arl’s son had kidnapped Shianni and the other brides. A year since Cerine had murdered the coward. And judging by the shadows on his Warden’s face, Shianni was right; she did not forget, nor forgive.

“But perhaps she believes in second chances?” He asked, then shrugged. “I bargained for my life, swore an oath to be bound to her service for as long as she would have me.” He smiled at her and found she was gazing at him with shining eyes, clear and affectionate. She blushed as their eyes met, and she looked away.

“And that’s it?” Shianni asked. “You swore an oath and she let you live?”

He shrugged. “There were myriad threats. Dismemberment, torture, starvation, should I cross her. But what concern were such tthings when I knew I would keep my promise?”

Cyrion looked between his daughter and Zevran, his eyes soft and a small smile on his lips.

Shianni leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Bullshit.”

“Shianni,” Cyrion admonished. 

“I must say,” Soris said, “it all sounds so fantastic. Like something from one of the shem fairytales.”

Zevran grinned at him. “It sounds that way, doesn’t it? But do you know what they never mention in those stories?”

Soris shook his head as Zevran took a drink of water. 

“The distinct aroma of the freshly dead,” he said.

Cerine smirked. “It does put a damper on the mood, doesn’t it?”

Soris looked aghast between them even as Cyrion chuckled. 

“My dear Warden,” Zevran drawled, a lazy smile curving his lips. “You have never complained.”

Shianni and Cerine both burst into laughter, the sound so similar it made Zevran’s chest ache. Was this what having a family was like? Sharing stories over dinner with those who wanted to hear them most?

“I think we’re ready for another tale,” Cyrion said. “Poor Soris can’t turn a brighter shade of red than that.” Indeed, the youngest cousin’s pale face had blossomed as red as embrium in full bloom.

Zevran met the eldest Tabris’ eyes. “Messere Tabris, that sounds like a challenge.”

The table laughed again as Soris dropped his face into his hands. Cerine’s hand found his thigh as she smiled at him. Shianni teased Soris into defending himself as Cyrion stood to fetch the small cake he’d saved for their dessert. 

As he sat and enjoyed the company of his Warden’s family, for the first time Zevran was sure that he had truly missed out on such simple joys in his youth. But now he had the chance to make up for them. He placed his hand on Cerine’s where it rested on his thigh and squeezed. As long as she would have him, he knew he would be welcome at their table.


	7. Why

A light knock on his door startled Zevran awake. He blinked into the dark of his room in the Arl’s Denerim estate, and for a moment he thought he’d dreamt the sound. But there it was again, the faint rap of knuckles on the solid oak door. 

His bare feet found the cold stone floor and carried him silently toward the door. He eyed his daggers, where they leaned against the wall in their sheaths, but surely an assassin in the night would not deign to knock. No, there could only be one person on the other side of his chamber door, and for the first time, Zevran wasn’t sure he wished to see her. 

He grimaced at the memory of his fumbled attempt at a romantic gesture earlier in the evening. Why did she have to complicate matters with insisting the gift have meaning? Wasn’t it enough that he thought to give her a gift at all? Why make things painful with memories and… feelings?

There came another knock, and this time it was followed with a tentative, “Zevran?”

He sighed. Even now, in the midst of his own embarrassment and confusion, he could not deny her. He opened the door to find Cerine blinking green eyes up at him, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted in surprise. She was beautiful, but Zevran schooled his features into a mask of impassivity; his feelings were hurt after all, and that was something entirely new and dangerous to him.

“Warden,” he said. “It’s late.” He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly aware of the fact that he wore only loose linen pants that hung low on his hips.

She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and looked down. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. But, can we talk? Please?”

Talk? Had she not talked enough when she’d tried to give the gold earring back? Her words claimed she wanted more than he could give, that she wanted emotions he didn’t know how to feel. But then she’d declined his offer to take the earring back, to forget about the whole awkward interaction, and had insisted on keeping it. How was he meant to interpret that? She said one thing only to do another!

He eyed her warily, then sighed. He stepped back to let her into the room, closing the door behind her, and then took a moment to light a few scattered candles and collect his thoughts and unruly emotions. When he finally turned to face her, Cerine stood at the foot of his bed, shadows pooling under her eyes and her hands fidgeting.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” he said, but a strange swirling sensation in his stomach contradicted his words. 

“Zevran.” 

He shrugged off the pleasure he felt at the sound of his name on her lips. “I do not wish to speak of it,” he said.

“Why not?”

He frowned. “It is,” he searched for the right words, “uncomfortable.”

She ran a hand through her golden hair. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about it.” She frowned at him. “Why did you give me that earring?”

He stared at her as he realized he didn’t really have an answer for her. It wasn’t the grand gesture she seemed to be hoping for. It was… simpler than that. “I wanted you to have it,” he said finally.

“But, why?” There was a pleading quality to her voice, as if she were desperate for any hint of his motivations.

Why did she continue to press this? What was she looking for? An uncharacteristic spring of frustration welled up in Zevran’s chest and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Braska, woman! I wanted you to have something of mine!”

She blinked at his outburst, her eyes wide and gleaming in the flickering light, but said nothing. Her blush deepened, climbing up her neck to stain her cheeks. “Why?”

Why, why, why. Was that the only word she knew? He didn’t know why, he just knew that she had given so much to him and he wanted-

“Ah,” he said. He stood, struck by his own revelation, and watched helplessly as Cerine came to stand before him. He sighed and shook his head, placing his hands on either side of her neck, his thumbs tracing her jaw. He ignored the trembling in his throat as he spoke. “You have shared so much with me,” he said. “Your quest, your bed, your family.” He swallowed at the lump in his throat, but it didn’t seem to help. “I wanted to share something of mine with you,” he glanced away, “but all I have is that silly earring.”

Gentle fingers on his cheek pulled his gaze back to her. “I love it,” she whispered. 

He searched her face for any hint of a lie, that she might be placating his vulnerable and raw emotions. But her eyes were bright with unshed tears, her expression the most unguarded he’d ever seen it. She didn’t begrudge him his sudden and unwieldy feelings, but shared them.

“Zevran.” His name was hot on her breath, setting his blood on fire. “I- I love you.”

The candles flickered in the faint breeze, the shadows dancing over her face, but that didn’t obscure the sight of her in the least. He knew her, knew the slope of her sharp cheekbones, the permanent pout of her lips, and the glinting gold humor that so often lurked in her eyes. But there was none there now, only a serious and desperate earnestness.

He smiled. “Tell me again.”

Her lips curved in a slow smile, the brightest he’d ever seen. “I love you.”

He hummed, the only sound he could make that might convey the wave of warm affection that coursed through him at her words. She pulled her hand from his face, dug in her pocket, and then placed the earring in his palm.

“Now will you help me put this on?”

He blinked at her, and then realized that his Warden didn’t have her ears pierced. He laughed, he simply didn’t know what else to do, and then nodded. Then Cerine climbed onto his bed, pulled her hair back, and waited for him.

Zevran sat beside her, the hoop so small in his fingers, and brushed the back of his hand along her neck. Cerine shivered at his touch, and another jolt of admiration suffused through him. He pressed his lips to the tender skin beneath her ear that he knew she liked so much, and smiled at her tiny gasp.

“Te amo, Cerine,” he murmured against her flushed skin. 

And then he pressed the point of the earring into her flesh.


	8. Are You Drunk?

Cerine Tabris, Commander of the Grey, was a formidable woman. Her appearance on the battlefield struck terror into the hearts of men and darkspawn alike, and her arrival at any social event was bound to put a damper on the festivities. She was grim, cynical, and occasionally even bitter. She wasn’t what one would typically describe as fun.

Apparently, defeating an Archdemon was occasion enough for even the Warden to celebrate.

Zevran watched with great amusement as his Warden drank ale after ale, her smile growing with each one until her laughter rolled through the tavern. He had never seen her so openly happy, so effusive. The sight of her smile flashing throughout the evening was absolutely riveting.

The Gnawed Noble roiled with revelers. Men, women, and even the occasional child celebrated the vanquishing of Urthemiel with raucous music, dancing, and an endless flow of alcohol. Zevran watched it all, though he didn’t join in. He had tried to stay close to Cerine’s side, but found it impossible as people surrounded her, congratulating her on a well-fought victory. So instead, he found a table in a corner with a good view of the bar and put his back against the wall.

An enormous burp roared over the din of the celebration to announce Oghren’s arrival at Zevran’s little table. The dwarf collapsed into the chair across from Zevran and blinked bleary eyes at the elf.

“What’re you doing hiding over here?” The words melted together like a piece of Alistair’s beloved cheese left too long in the sun.

Zevran frowned. “I am not hiding.”

“Fine,” the dwarf burped. “Sulking, then.”

He wasn’t sulking either, he was observing. Which the dwarf was meddling with. “I’m watching,” he said. “And you’re in my way.”

“Bah!” Oghren waved one hand. “She’s fine. She just killed a sodding Archdemon! It’d be a fool that tried to come after her now.”

The Warden was mighty, no doubt, but Zevran knew well that everyone had a weakness. Reputations and accomplishments be damned. With alcohol flowing in her blood, surrounded by strangers, Zevran was hard-pressed to recall a time Cerine had been more vulnerable.

“The Crows make it their business to train fools,” he growled.

The dwarf took a loud slurp from his tankard and sighed. “If you’re so blasted concerned, why don’t you take the fight to them?”

Zevran blinked. He hadn’t considered that. Their quest was done, the Blight thwarted. He could return to Antiva, bring the Crows to their knees. He could keep Cerine safe.

“Ha!” Oghren barked. “Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“I admit, the thought had not occurred to me.” It was a tantalizing idea. His daggers were thirsty for vengeance against those that had taught him that love was weakness, a flaw to be cut from one’s soul like gangrene from flesh. But, Cerine had responsibilities in Ferelden thanks to Alistair’s ‘gift’ of Amaranthine. She wouldn’t be able to follow him. But, considering the dangers of his quest, perhaps that would be best.

Besides, she didn’t more blood on her hands. But he would gladly bathe in the blood of a million Crows if it would keep her safe and sound.

“Looks like your girl is looking for you,” Oghren said, pulling Zevran from his dark thoughts.

He looked up to see Cerine standing on the bar so she could see over the crowd. His heart raced as she wobbled on her feet, but Leliana was there, her hands on the Warden’s ankles to keep her in place. Her green eyes found him, her grin so bright that Zevran thought it might blind him. He would happily bear that image as his last.

Cerine jumped down from the bar, her laughter at Leliana’s chastisement washing away the last of Zevran’s gloomy mood. She weaved through the crowd, men and women patting her shoulders as she passed, congratulating her once again for saving all of Thedas. Eventually she dropped into Zevran’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I’m ready to go,” she announced. She was breathless from her celebrations and as she rested her head on his shoulder a waft of ale-stained breath reached his face.

Zevran wrinkled his nose but chuckled. “My dear Warden, are you drunk?”

“Maybe.”

Oghren laughed, then burped. “Lightweight.”

She glared at him. “I weigh a third what you do.”

“What’re you trying to say?” The dwarf drained his tankard and stood, waving a hand down his body. “That I need to go on a diet?”

She laughed. “You’re practically on a liquid diet already!”

He nodded and tried to drink from his tankard again. “Blast it all,” he grumbled. Then he stumbled off to find more ale without saying a word in farewell.

Cerine shook her head and relaxed into Zevran’s arms with a sigh. He smiled and tightened his arms around her. “Come, amor. Let’s get you to bed.”

She smiled, slow and sensual. “I like the sound of that.”

He had to admit, he did too, but first he needed to get her back to their quarters. He set her down and led her out of the tavern, amid cheers and well wishes. Leliana caught Zevran’s eye, and something mischeivous glittered in her gaze. The bard had been glued to his Warden’s hip through the evening, and now he wondered what secrets the ale had loosened from Cerine’s tongue.

The night was cool, though the city still smelled of char and ruin. Building lay in shambles, debris scattered across the street, and yet the moonlight danced over it all, gleaming off the gold hoop that dangled from Cerine’s ear.

“Zevran?” She pulled against his hand to stop him.

“What is it, amor?”

She chewed at her lip for a moment, then took a deep breath. “We should get married.”

He blinked, as if seeing her clearly would help him make sense of her words. His jaw fell and he tripped over words that he couldn’t seem to find. Finally he choked out, “you’re drunk.”

“Doesn’t make it untrue.” Her voice was firm and her eyes shone with reflected moonlight as she looked up at him. “We should do it, before…” She looked away from him, her skin flushed with sudden embarrassment.

Zevran tilted her chin up with one finger. “Before what, Cerine?”

She closed her eyes, as if bracing herself for the words she was about to say. “Before we have to go our separate ways.”

His breath caught in his throat, anything he could think to say suddenly lodged in his chest.

“I have to see to Amaranthine,” she continued, unaware of his panic. “And I want you to come with me, but we both know you’ll hate it. I’ll hate it. I don’t want to watch over these people, these… shems. I’m nothing to them without Alistair’s command.” She hiccuped and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that fell anyway. “And you shouldn’t have to deal with that, you shouldn’t have to deal with me dealing with that. And besides, I saw you tonight, keyed up and watching.”

“Amor,” he murmured. Hazel eyes opened to meet his, but she wasn’t done.

“It’s the Crows isn’t it?” She stared him down until he nodded. “You’re going to Antiva?”

How did she know? Was he that transparent, or did she really just know him that well? “I hadn’t decided yet,” he said.

“Bullshit.” She pulled away from him. “Don’t lie to me to save my feelings.”

He bristled at her tone, but only for a moment; she was right after all. He sighed, “all right. Yes, I had considered it. I was going to talk it over with you in the morning.”

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded. He touched the golden hoop at her ear, reassuring himself of his place in her heart. She yawned suddenly, which made him chuckle.

“That would probably be for the best,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“Talking in the morning.”

He hummed as he tucked loose strands of her blonde hair back from her face. He dipped his face down to brush his lips on hers. “Yes, amor. In the morning.” He took her hand and led her through the winding alleys of Denerim, taking comfort in the heat of her palm against his as his mind raced.

The Warden was practically asleep on her feet by the time they arrived at their chamber. Zevran set to the task of undressing her and ensured she drank a glass of water before she snuggled under the covers, her head resting on his shoulder. But even as her breathing evened into gentle snores, he knew he would never get to sleep.

For once, the morning held more promise than the night.


	9. Masks

His Warden was frowning.

This wasn’t unusual for the small elven woman, in fact most would say it was her default expression. But this frown was particularly grim, the frown of a woman stuck mulling through memories whose hurts no amount of contemplation would ever ease. Cerine had only ever shared a fraction of those memories with him, and they were dark indeed. The kind of memories that turned into nightmares, growing in the mind until they festered. His Warden deserved better.

She deserved to smile.

Zevran glanced around the market, but there was little in the muck and mud of Denerim’s city square to inspire good cheer. Beggar children chased each other through the street, their legs knee deep in mud, while that stubborn dwarf kept shouting about his goods straight from Orzammar. As if the whole town didn’t know that by now.

Cerine’s hound sat at her heel as his master bartered with an insufferable Orlesian woman whose perfume only mingled with the smell of the overflowing gutters into something wholly unpleasant.

Perhaps a gift? Would his Warden like a delicate vial of something fragrant? Something that might permit her to forget the hardships of their travels, if only for a moment?

Cerine’s frown deepened as she argued with the pompous woman.

No. Definitely not.

He crossed his arms and scanned the market for ideas. There was always the joys of a new weapon. Zevran loved learning the intricacies of his blades, perfecting his technique with their individual weights and balances. He eyed Cerine’s scabbards, finely polished and oiled. She cared for her daggers greatly and with pride. If she wanted new ones, she would order them from Harritt.

He sighed and the dog echoed the sentiment. Zevran looked down at the beast, eyebrow raised, but the dog had no time for the lowly assassin. The Mabari cocked his head, his ears perked as he stared intently toward the alley.

“Forty sovereigns?” Cerine shrieked. “You’re out of your mind!”

He grimaced. “Shall we investigate?” He asked the hound.

The dog glanced at his master, then stood to lead the way into the narrow alley. The sun was high, but so were the buildings in Denerim, which cloaked this particular alley in cool shadows. At first, Zevran heard nothing but Cerine’s dog’s huffs and sniffles as he pressed his nose to the ground.

The dog let out a soft bark, lifted his head, and trotted to a small alcove, his stub of a tail wagging furiously. Zevran followed the dog and felt a grin overtake his face.

Perfect.

 

Cerine dropped the coins onto the crate harder than she really needed to, but the Orlesian flinched when she did so, so it was worth it.

She snatched up her purchase and turned to Zevran. “Let’s… go?”

He was gone. And so was her dog. She searched the market, but didn’t see either of them. It wasn’t unusual for Zevran to disappear into the crowd, but it was unlike her Mabari to just wander off. They had to be together.

She was just about to head to the tavern, thinking Zevran might have gone for an ale, when she spotted the familiar blonde hair and the flash of bright teeth in a wide smile.

“Where did you go?” She asked as he jogged to her. “And where’s the dog?”

He took her hand, his smile only growing. “Come, I will show you.”

Cerine rolled her eyes. She appreciated Zevran’s spontaneity on most days, but it wasn’t even noon yet and she’d already had it to her ears with people. She wanted to get lunch, an ale, and then lock herself in their room for the foreseeable future.

But, she followed her assassin into the alley, and felt the ghost of a smile curl her lips despite her sour mood.

Her mabari sat tall and serious beside a collection of barrels tucked under some scaffolding. She was about to ask what had gotten in to the both of them when she heard the soft, mewling whimpers from within one of the tipped barrels.

Zevran knelt, reached into the barrel, and returned to her with a tiny, fluffy puppy cradled in his arms.

Cerine’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide as she took in the squirming little hound, with his muzzle and feet tipped in white, with pink nails and nose. He was perfect.

He handed her the pup, then crouched and pulled two more from the barrel, one black and the other grey. “This is all of them,” he said.

“The mother?”

He shrugged. “Not here, and from their cries, she hasn’t been in a while.”

Cerine made a very soft keening sound low in her throat and cradled the puppy closer to her chest. “Poor babies,” she cooed. “All alone in that stinky barrel, mama missing, and you’re probably hungry!”

The pup let out a tiny little yap, which the Warden’s hound echoed in his deep voice. Cerine laughed and cooed as she gently tugged the little mabari’s ears. When she looked up she found Zevran watching her with intent hazel eyes, a smirk on his mouth.

“What?” she asked defensively.

“Nothing,” he insisted, but his smirk only grew. “What shall we do with them?”

She scowled at the assassin as she considered his question. Then she smiled. “We never did get the King a coronation present.”

Zevran laughed, a full belly laugh that tilled his head back and scrunched his eyes closed. It was a beautiful sight. In that moment, in a stinking back alley of Denerim’s market with a puppy pressed against her chest and Zevran’s unabashed laughter, Cerine Tabris knew she was blessed.

Despite everything, the city couldn’t haunt her anymore. Not when she had her lover’s laughter to scare her demons away.

 


	10. Time Well Spent

Zevran spat saltwater from his mouth as he and Cerine waded out of the sea and onto the warm, pale sand of the island. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the shore, panting and chuckling with relief. They’d survived, against all odds. The sun shone down on him, warming his soaked clothes and his frigid, pruny skin. Cerine plopped down beside him, sweeping her dripping hair back from her face.

“If I ever see that Rivaini again, I’ll drown her myself.”

Zevran laughed. “I don’t think you can blame her for the weather, my dear.” He blinked up at her in time to see her scowl. He was so relieved that they were both alive that even her sour mood couldn’t make his smile falter. 

“Watch me,” she continued. “She didn’t even try to come back for us!” She gestured around them. “And now we’re stuck on some tiny little spit of sand, probably for the rest of our short lives, eating hermit crabs or something!”

Zevran knew better than to laugh at his amor when her temper flared, but it was a near thing. It was the hermit crabs that nearly undid him. So, instead of chuckling and earning her ire, he stood and began exploring the island. 

Cerine continued her monologue, her language becoming more and more colorful as she imagined their prolonged solitude on the island, until she came up with interesting plots of revenge for Isabela. Assuming, of course, they ever saw the captain again. 

Meanwhile, Zevran collected a couple coconuts, scouted a small spring surrounded with palm trees and bushes full with chirping birds. They could use the remaining wreckage and driftwood to build a small shelter, and palm fronds as a bed. So, with that plan, Zevran set to work. Cerine didn’t notice him until he cracked a coconut open on a rock and handed half to her.

“Plotting revenge develops quite the thirst,” he said, not bothering to hide his smile.

She glared at him, but it fizzled into a soft smile as she took the coconut. “Thanks,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing. Though, it was hard to discern the blush from the sunburn. Their time at sea had not been kind. Once she finished the grainy water and had nibbled on some of the flesh of the fruit, he took her hand and pulled her up to stand beside him.

“Come,” he said. He held her hand and tugged her along on a tour of the island. It didn’t take long, only a handful of minutes, but he watched as his words soothed her, the tension melting from her shoulders and her frown fading. 

“And here we have our spring,” he said, waving an arm at the tiny oasis. “Complete with songbirds and palm trees.” He led her to a particularly flat space near the spring. “We can build shelter here,” he said. “Our humble home will have quite the view, no?”

She looked around, taking in the soft breeze, fragrant with wildflowers and the salt of the sea. The tide broke against the shore in a rhythmic hush to mingle with the trill of the birds, and the expanse of pale blue sea and even paler sky filled their world.

When she turned to look at him there were tears in her eyes. “Why aren’t you upset?”

He smiled, and tugged gently at the golden hoop in her ear. “It’s like a vacation, no? There are no darkspawn here, no Crows, nothing but the sea, sand, and us.” He shrugged, suddenly bashful. “I can think of worse ways to die.”

Cerine laughed then, though it was marred with tears, and shook her head. “Only we could think starving to death on a deserted island is a vacation.”

“A side effect of our bloody lives, to be sure.”

She giggled, though he would never admit to hearing such a sound from her, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him. 

Yes, he thought. If this was how he would die, he would die happy indeed. 

But, it turned out, their little island was not far from Llomerryn, and Isabela found them in less than a week. Despite the Warden’s dark promises, she treated the captain with respect and gratitude when Isabela apologized for losing track of them in the storm.

“Do not fret, my dearest Isabela,” he said over his goblet of wine at the captain’s table. “We made good use of our time, did we not, amor?”

Cerine blushed but her grin was fierce. “It was a rather lovely vacation after all.”

“Well, then,” Isabela purred. “Cheers to time well spent!” 

They clinked their goblets together, smiles all around, but Zevran had eyes only for Cerine. He would cherish their days spent on their little island, but he would carry the memory of the nights with him for the rest of his days. There could be no better view than that of Cerine above him, bathed in moonlight and framed by the stars.

He held the Warden’s gaze as he drank, letting the heat of the memory pool in his eyes. Her blush deepened, but she did not look away.

Time well spent indeed.


	11. Cause for Celebration

Returning to Antiva was a mistake. Zevran knew its streets, still remembered the twists and turns of narrow cobblestone alleys. But where he’d once found comfort in the close confines of tall boarding houses he now only felt the grip of anxiety.

There were too many variables, too many possible hiding places for Crows brave enough to take the contract on his life. He knew it existed, knew that the bounty on his head was high indeed.The cost on his life had been what had convinced his Warden to go through with this brazen plan. Zevran was opposed to it, but there’d been no convincing Cerine of another path once she set foot on this one.

He pulled his black cloak tighter around his shoulders and readjusted the ornamental crow mask on his face. He fought the urge to look up, to scan the roofs for any sign of the Crows he knew waited to drop down on him from above.

_Just a few steps more,_ he chided himself.

Rain poured down on him, the splash of countless drops hammering the stones beneath his boots. Above him, there was a single parapet, atop which crouched a figure in a shadowy cloak. Zevran smiled and with all the ease and practice of decades of swordplay, he unsheathed his twin daggers, spinning them once before falling back into a defensive crouch.

“Zevran Arainai,” a deep voice called from further up the alley. “You should not have returned to Antiva.”

“I suggested as much,” Zevran shouted over the rain. “But there’s no arguing with the Warden, Claudio.”

The man stepped out of the shadows, but was wise enough to keep out of range of Zevran’s blades. Claudio Valisti had done well for himself in the years since Zevran had joined the Warden. It made sense, he was a charismatic fellow, charming in all the most useful ways, and he wasn’t half bad with a blade. After all the years of social climbing and maneuvering to earn the title of Third Talon, Zevran almost felt bad that he would have to take the man’s life.

Almost.

Claudio did not take his eyes from Zevran. “Where is the Warden?” He pouted. “I was looking forward to introducing her to my… sword.”

Zevran laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that, Claudio. She’s become quite the connoisseur of innuendos over the past decade.”

The men traded smirks. Claudio’s widened ever so slightly, just as Zevran heard the twang of a bowstring releasing.

Without thought Zevran dove forward, rolling across the cobblestones to crouch before Claudio and thrust his sword up at the man. Of course, Claudio was prepared for that and took two steps back to avoid the blade.

The Crows materialized out of the dim edges of the alley, surrounding Zevran and blocking off any obvious exits. He stood, sparing a glance for the new arrivals, but then returned his attention to the Talon.

“Where is she Zevran?” Claudio asked.

“Would you believe me if I said she went back to Ferelden?”

“No. We sighted her this morning. With you. In the market.”

“Ah. Well, then.” Zevran shrugged. “I do not know what to tell you except that the Warden is definitely not here.”

On cue, a tiny shimmer flitted through the air to sink into the eye socket of the Crow directly beside Claudio. The man did not cry out as he collapsed, did not moan and writhe on the soaked stones; he was dead the moment the throwing knife pierced his brain. Two more dropped before Claudio pulled his sword from its sheath.

There was the ripple and flap of fabric in the wind, the only announcement of his Warden’s leap from the parapet, and then she was beside him, daggers drawn. She wore the same cloak as he did along with an intimidating wolf mask. She spun her blades the same way he had, prepping for battle. In fact, in the gloom of the rainy evening they were almost identical.

Which was the point.

“Kill them!” Claudio shouted. The Crows leapt into action, eager to test their steel against that of Antiva’s most wanted rogue assassin and the legendary Commander of the Grey. Zevran remembered the thrill of the kill, that scintillating drive to prove yourself. But, he found that breathing was so much more enjoyable than fleeting moments of perceived glory.

His hands moved to parry the first Crow’s attack. The boy was too eager, extending himself fully behind the lunge. It was a simple thing to block with one blade and then slide the other into the assassin’s armpit. Zevran felt when his blade pierce the boy’s heart, the momentary pressure against his steel and then the sweet inevitability as the dagger sank a fraction further.

Yes, he remembered this well.

Behind him there was a flurry of cloaks and swords clashing, the sounds dampened by the rain. He dispatched another assassin with a flick of his wrist and spun to assess their status. Cerine was surrounded by corpses, the careful slices and stab wounds bleeding out from the bodies to mix with the tiny rivers of rainwater that flowed between cobblestones.

Cerine battled Claudio and one last Crow. The Talon bided his time, lunging in and out as his underling attempted to distract the Warden. She parried each blow, ducking and dodging when her blade couldn’t do the trick.

She was marvelous, Zevran decided. A force of nature unto herself. She danced with her daggers, always had, but she’d learned so much since they’d first met that now she was ethereal. A specter of the night cloaked in mist and rain. A skeletal wolf come to punish those that tried to kill her mate.

He could have watched her forever, but he’d prefer they both survive this encounter.

Zevran pulled the throwing knife from his boot and pitched it at the remaining Crow. It took him in the throat, spraying blood in an arc above Cerine as she crouched out of the way. Claudio was not so lucky. He took the assassin’s lifeblood across the face, forcing him to splutter and blink. Cerine took the opportunity to swing her leg in the Talon’s ankles.

By the time Claudio understood that he was on his back, both Zevran and Cerine stood above him, each with a sword pointed into his face.

“My dear, Warden,” Zevran purred. “You were splendid.”

“I’m not done yet,” she said. She gestured at Claudio with her blade. “Where shall we put his head?”

Claudio paled, his breathing coming fast and shallow. “No, please.”

Zevran smiled underneath his mask. It always felt good to take power from those who once shackled him. “Perhaps at the steps of the Royal Bank? It would send quite the message.”

“If it’s a message we’re sending, why not the palace?”

“Or,” Claudio stuttered. “I could deliver your message, personally, Commander.”

Hazel eyes flashed behind her mask. Flattery had never worked on Cerine, no matter how much Zevran had tried. That Claudio thought he could talk his way out of death had certainly decided his fate; Cerine Tabris had no patience for men who believed themselves above the fate they’d earned.

Zevran inclined his head and stepped back from Claudio, the only signal his Warden needed to cleave the Talon’s head from his shoulders.

He watched her as the rage slowly left her limbs. Her shoulders, stiff and high with fury finally fell, her daggers returned to their scabbards, and only then did she turn to look at him.

“You decide what to do with him,” she said. She stepped past him, ready to lead them through the winding alleys and back to their room at the inconspicuous tavern, but he caught her wrist and pulled her to stand before him.

Gently, careful of the steel claws at the end of his gauntlets, he raised her wolf mask and held her gaze. “We are safe, amor.”

“For now.”

He smiled, oblivious to the rain in the face of his Warden’s beauty. “For now,” he agreed. He tilted her chin and pressed his lips to hers as the memory of her dancing blades stoked a fire deep in him.

She moaned softly, pressing against him despite the armor between them. “We should celebrate,” she said.

He grinned. “Of course, my dear. What did you have in mind?”


	12. Opportunistic

Zevran thanked the barkeep and carried the two plates of food back up the stairs and to their room. His Warden disliked eating in public these days, and though her reasons made him sad he had to admit, he was also relieved. She was much easier to watch over in the privacy of their bedroom.

He knocked the toe of his boot against the door, the familiar pattern they’d agreed upon when they’d first started traveling together. It’d been more than a decade since those days, but her smile as she opened the door still took his breath away.

“Thank the Maker,” Cerine sighed as she stepped back to let him enter. “I’m starving!”

Zevran’s grin never faltered, though his heart clenched. “You are insatiable, mi amor.” She laughed at his innuendo, which was of course the point in saying it. Anything to hear her laugh for he feared his opportunities to do so were limited.

He set the plates on the modest table by the window and they sat to their meal. With careful, practiced eyes he watched his Warden. Cerine’s golden skin had paled, the ashy undertone poking holes in her reasoning that it was because they so often traveled at night. Her cheeks were thin, clinging to her high cheekbones no matter how much he fed her, and the fork trembled on its path to her mouth. That was why they took their meals in private; she didn’t want others to know that the Commander of the Grey could hardly feed herself, let alone lift her daggers against the darkspawn.

“Zev,” she said, pulling him from his examination. “I’m fine.” Her eyes were bright and warm. They were one of the few things about her that had not changed over the years. And when she looked at him Zevran thought they were as sweet as honey.

He smiled. “You are more than fine, my dear Warden.” He lowered his voice and wagged his eyebrows suggestively. “You’re ravishing.”

Another, beautiful laugh climbed up her throat and graced his ears. How lucky he was to hear such a sound.

 

“Cerine!”

She spun to swing her dagger into the neck of the darkspawn that tried to flank her. Once the stroke would have cleaved the head from the creature, but it had been months since she was strong enough for such a thing. Her blade sank into the flesh, met the vertebrae and stopped. The Hurlock screamed and black ichor pulsed from its throat, coating her arm and spraying her face with the hot, tarlike substance.

She tugged on her dagger, but her arm ached and her grip faltered. She could not remove the blade.

The darkspawn raised its sword, even in its death throes, and brought it down at her shoulder. Cerine lifted her right arm and parried with her second dagger. The blades resounded off one another and the vibration jolted up her arm like a thunderbolt. She cried out as she released her grip on the dagger and the Hurlock’s blade continued its arc.

The sword sliced through her mail and stuck in the reinforced leather, biting into her forearm. The darkspawn roared at her, it’s breath hot on her face as spittle and blood flecked her cheeks.

This was not how she planned to die, hunting down some vague lead in an ancient Warden ruin, too weak to even kill four darkspawn. But, it seemed the Maker had little concern for her plans.

There was no warning, no grunt from Zevran as he threw his boot knife, no hiss of the blade as it hurtled through the air. Only the crunch and thunk of the small knife sinking into the Hurlock’s skull just above where its ear should have been.

The darkspawn stiffened then went utterly still as it released its sword and sank to the ground. Cerine panted, bent over with her hands on her knees, before she too swayed and met with the ground.

“Amor!” Zevran rushed to her side, helping her sit up, steadying her with trembling hands of his own.

“I'm all right,” she insisted. “I just need to catch my breath.” She knew from the fear in his eyes that her lie was a bad one. She was not all right. If not for Zevran she would be dead, and the tremors that shook her body were the product of more than just adrenaline.

But he sat with her, his golden eyes watching, cataloging every detail, until the shaking in her bones stilled and her breathing calmed.

“Come,” he said and helped her stand. “You are a mess, my dear.” His smile was thin, fragile on lips that were too used to hiding how he really felt inside.

She laughed, though it didn’t sound like much of one, and followed him out of the ruin and back to their camp. Once there Zevran wasted no time in tending to her. He lit the fire, collected water from the stream, and dug the suture kit from his pack. The water went into the kettle to boil, and he helped her out of her armor while they waited.

Cerine hissed as she lifted her arms so that he could pull the silverite chainmail over her head, each muscle protesting the movement. Next his fingers found the buttons on her leathers and his hands were careful as he pushed the material off her shoulders. That left her in the linen tunic she often wore beneath her armor. He rolled the right sleeve up to expose the slice in her forearm.

She closed her eyes and waited for him to see what she had hidden from him these past few weeks. The kettle whistled softly and then there was heat against her flesh as he cleaned the area surrounding the wound. The darkspawn’s blood would hide her secret for only so long, and with each tender stroke Zevran drew closer to heartbreak.

He paused in his ministrations, the quiet resounding between them as she refused to look at him.

“Amor?” It was a whisper, the word so frail and fearful that it shivered off his tongue.

“Please, Zevran,” she said. She opened her eyes and hated the tears that had already formed in them. “I can’t…”

His brow furrowed, his mouth settling into a hard frown in a rare expression of anger. “You can’t?” He jabbed the washcloth into the kettle, splashing in his forcefulness. “What is it ‘you can’t’? Tell me that you are weak? That you are hurting?” He swabbed at the cut in her arm, and despite his rage his touch was no less tender. His hands didn’t shake as he set the cloth aside, but his voice did when he next spoke. “That you are dying, Cerine?”

She didn’t look away when he glanced up at her. She didn’t fight the tears, but neither did she speak. Zevran held her gaze before sighing and turning his attention to suturing the wound on her arm. Neither of them said a word while he worked, and they were both so used to the task that she hardly even winced as the needle and thread twined through her skin. She tried to ignore the dark hue of her blood, the thickness of it. She tried to ignore what that meant, but that was easier said than done.

Was she less of an elf now? More of a darkspawn? How much longer did she have before they were out of time? Before she would wake up one day and not be herself, but some monstrous ghoul? If she did find a cure for the taint, would it even work on her, advanced as she was in her Calling? How much longer could she ignore the whispers that beckoned her to the deep dark beneath her feet?

“Cerine.” Zevran’s voice was sharp to pull her from her spiraling thoughts. He had moved to clean the needle and stow the suture kit. He stoked the fire and spoke without looking at her, “you should bathe. I’ll make dinner tonight.”

She had always prepared dinner when they made camp. It reminded her of her years in the alienage, cooking for her father. It made her feel at home, but now the Calling had taken that from her too. She nodded, mute, but he still did not look away from the flames. So she stood, retrieved her soap and a fresh set of clothes, and made her way to the stream.

 

Zevran tended to their meal with little care for the details. His mind was occupied with repeating his words over and over. You are dying, Cerine. They’d both known it, had known it since the very beginning. Cerine’s days were numbered; that was the price of being a Grey Warden. But knowing that the woman he loved would someday die, and being faced with that reality were two vastly different things.

He had not handled that conversation well. Then again, neither had she. Cerine was not the best communicator when it came to her feelings, and he was woefully poor in the department himself. He chuckled as he pulled the fish from the fire; they were quite the pair.

There was a frustrated cry and a violent splash of water down at the stream. Zevran set their meagre meal aside and hurried down to the water to find Cerine standing waist deep. Her arms wrapped around her torso, her shoulders hunched as she cried with her back to him.

He undressed quickly and silently, his armor pooling around his feet. He didn’t waste time acclimating to the frigid water, but moved into the stream steadily. She either didn’t notice his arrival or simply couldn’t stem the tide of her tears. He wrapped his arms around her and winced at how thin she felt in his arms.

“Hush, amor.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I am here.”

She shuddered, and he wondered if it was from the crying or the Calling. “I’m so sorry, Zevran.”

He pulled her tighter against his chest. “How long have you heard it?” The weight loss, her pallid complexion, the shaking, he could pin dates to all of that. But the archdemon singing in her head? If she didn’t tell him, he was clueless.

“A few weeks now.” She shook her head. “I didn’t recognize it at first, it was so easy to excuse as something else.”

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “How long?”

“It’s different for each of us,” she said. “It isn’t so bad, yet. Isn’t even constant.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I could have months, maybe even years left. If it doesn’t accelerate.”

His pulse settled somewhat at her words, but he wondered how much of what she said was the truth and how much was hope. His amor had always been optimistic for someone so grim.

“Zev,” she said. She shivered against him, and this time he knew it had nothing to do with the Calling. She took a deep breath, taking a moment to steel them both. “We need to accept the possibility that, even if we find a cure for the taint, it may not be able to save me.”

He swallowed at the lump in his throat and nodded. His face brushed against her hair, still dry and glommed with Hurlock ichor, but he didn’t care. When he didn’t speak she turned to face him.

“I’m not going to give up,” she promised. In the twilight he could just pretend that she wasn’t too thin, that her skin would bloom under the rays of tomorrow’s sun. He smiled at her and his finger traced her pointed ear to caress the single gold hoop that dangled there.

“I did not expect you to.” He said once he knew his voice would not betray the emotion that lurked low in his throat.

She grinned, that bright smile she reserved just for him, and he didn’t need to pretend that its force lit up his world. He bowed his head to brush his lips against hers. She returned the kiss, reassuring him that she was still Cerine, still the Warden. Still his.

He would make a point, in the coming months, maybe years, to find the smallest excuses to collect her kisses. For, like her laughter, his opportunities were now limited. And Zevran was nothing if not opportunistic.


End file.
